He couldn’t go back to his hotel – the men from the CPD would be there, waiting for him. They had tracked him down to the Blue Note – there had been two warnings, good-cop, bad-cop – he didn’t think there would be a third.

He could go back to Vientiane. It seemed very far now, a hot dry place transformed in the rainy season into a lush tropical garden, the dusty streets swept by thick drops of rain, unpaved sidewalks turning to mud, eggplants going out of season, mosquitoes congregating around open drains to pass on gossip and malaria. He still had the black credit card: he could go anywhere.

Anywhere but over the rainbow, he thought. Or perhaps that was wrong. Perhaps the song was upside down. It was returning from the place where the clouds were far behind that was the problem. Sometimes you can never go back, he thought. He wanted more than anything to solve the case, it gave him substance, shape, a backdrop, a script. He could go anywhere and still be nowhere. He could try and find answers at the bottom of a glass but even those were running out.

He was sorry for beating up on all those doormen, sorry for all the beat up worn out gatekeepers of the world, for all the closed locked doors, for all the dark rooms that would never be lit, for all the hidden secret inscriptions of the mind. He had to admire Longshott, if it really was him, for setting up the mail loop, London-Paris-London, Frith Street to Boulevard Haussmann and back, an endless repetitive loop hiding everything, revealing nothing.

Or maybe not, he thought. Not exactly nothing. He sat up straighter. From his pocket, he brought out the letter he had collected. The Statue of Liberty on the stamp, a postage date of two weeks before. He examined the envelope, determined nothing, tore it open.

A sheet of paper, folded accordion-fashion, slid out and into Joe’s hand.

He spread it open on his knees. Began to read. Noted the large, badly-printed typeface, the profusion of exclamation marks – frowned, read on, shook his head – began to laugh, but the laughter cut short.

It was worth a shot.

And he had nothing else.

He read it again, folded it back the way it came, returned it to its envelope. Stood up. The first rays of light were struggling against the grey-black horizon, like prisoners beating against bars. Joe slipped the envelope back into his pocket, patted it. He found a public rubbish bin, wiped Mo’s gun clean, slid it into the bin bag.

Walked towards the distant sunrise.

IN TRANSIT

 the letter from America

——

Morning breaking, the sun a distant lamp carried unsteadily up in the heavens. Rain fell, washing the city, lending the red-grey bricks a sheen of vitality, a coating of moss. Joe had bought coffee at an all-night vendor, Styrofoam cup, the coffee black, two sugars, had it with a cigarette – doctor’s orders. His hand holding the cigarette shook.

Early morning, London. He’d gone back to Edgware Road, on foot. Cars roared in rush-hour traffic above his head. He’d gone into a barbershop, a trick shop beside it just opening up. Did all his shopping on the high street – new clothes, new haircut, new hair colour, wore glasses – a suit, a briefcase, a pencil moustache. Oxford pin on his tie. A Rolex watch, fake and heavy on his wrist. He looked at himself in a shop window and nodded to the stranger. ‘You’ll do just fine,’ he told him. The stranger mouthed the words back to him, without sound.

His last call the bank, took out cash on the black card. The letter from America was snug in the breast pocket of his suit. A black cab to the airport, the driver chatty – ‘Me, I’m from Baghdad. You ever been?’

Joe saying, ‘No.’

‘Lovely place,’ the driver said, and sighed. ‘When I go back I’ll take a black cab with me.’

The drive was slow, the roads busy, the sun still struggled to come out. The rain drizzled down the windows of the cab. The world beyond was smudged.

Red brick houses stoic in the rain. Traffic lights blinked sedately. School kids crossed the road. Joe could smell coffee brewing, bread baking, saw forests of dark umbrellas sprouting in the streets. Postmen marched determined from house to house like soldiers performing a search. Blue-haired ladies were opening doors, turning on the lights in hospice and charity shops. Joe edged the window open, let the smell of rain come inside the cab, closed his eyes. The cab driver said, ‘In my country the rain is different.’

Joe didn’t reply.

Outer London spread out from the cab like ripples. Low houses, double-decker buses, somewhere in the distance the bell ring of a school, somewhere in the distance the tolling of church bells, somewhere in the distance, coming closer, the sound of planes, landing and taking-off.

‘In my country,’ the cab driver said, ‘it’s very sunny, not like here.’

Joe let it pass. They drove into Heathrow, watched blue-overalled mechanics swarm around a stationary jet, uniformed stewardesses waiting for the shuttle bus, a two-man team clearing out the rubbish.

‘Smells like oil,’ the cab driver said, and suddenly grinned. ‘Just like in my country.’

Joe didn’t reply. At the terminal the cab stopped, and Mr. Laszlo stepped out. Rolex, briefcase, tie with tie-pin; glasses, moustache, polished black shoes. He paid for the cab. He went inside the terminal, looked out for men in black. Didn’t see them, but knew someone was there.

‘Can I help you, sir?’

‘I hope you can.’ Mr. Laszlo smiled, put his hand on the desk, a heavy gold wedding band on his finger catching the electric light. ‘I’d like a ticket to New York.’

The woman checked her folders, went through a list. ‘I have a seat available on the next flight. That’s in two hours.’

‘That,’ Mr. Laszlo said, ‘would be perfect.’

but soon

——

They were looking out for him but Joe wasn’t there, and Richard “Ricky” Laszlo had nothing to do with the CPD, whoever or whatever they were. As he approached the plane, briefcase still in hand (empty but for three shiny-new Vigilante paperbacks he had picked up on Edgware Road, to replace the ones he had had to abandon at the hotel, the fourth one, World Trade Center, held in his other hand) a light rain was falling and as pale sunlight pierced through the drops he saw her, and stopped.

They stood under the metal plane. She said, ‘I thought…’ and stopped, and on an impulse he took her hand in his, and it was cold. ‘At the Blue Note,’ she said. ‘You left. I…’ again, a silence punctuating her words. ‘When will it end?’ she said.

‘I need to find him,’ Joe said. ‘I need to know.’

She said, ‘Yes…’ He covered her hands in his, trying to warm them. She felt very cold. She looked into his eyes. He wasn’t sure because of the rain, but he thought she was crying. ‘Stay with me,’ she said.

‘I…’

She inched her head, regarded him. When she smiled it reached her eyes. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I want you to.’ She was like a wild bird, there on his hand, ready to take off. ‘I want you to know.’

She took her hand away. He let his fall to his sides. Above their heads the engines thrummed. A distant announcer sang the names of far-off cities. ‘I have to get on the plane,’ he said.

She said, ‘Or you’ll regret it?’ and shook her head, wearing her smile like a veil. ‘Maybe not today, but soon?’

All at once she made him uncomfortable. Her eyes were too bright, too knowing. Yet he feared letting her go, sensed how close she was to disappearing. ‘I’ll find him,’ he said.

‘And I will find you,’ she said. ‘I will always find you.’ Then she turned away from him. She walked away in the rain, and for a long time he stared after her, long after she had disappeared between the drops.

Then he climbed the stairs onto the plane; it was only when he stepped into the air-controlled environment inside that he realised the once-new paperback in his hand had become damp and soggy from the rain, and as he took his seat he fanned the pages open in his lap, airing them as he stared out of the window onto the tarmac, searching for her, but she wasn’t there.